Shopaholic & Baby

“That could have been her forewater,” another student pipes up, looking all girly-swotty and pleased with herself. “This could be her hindwater.”

I’m in a state of shock. My water has broken.

That means…I’m in labor.

I really, genuinely, truly am in labor.

Aaaargh. Oh my God. We’re going to have a baby!

“Luke.” I grab him in total panic. “It’s happening!”

“I know, my darling.” Luke smooths my brow. “And you’re doing amazingly….”

“No!” I wail. “You don’t understand—” I stop, suddenly breathless. What was that?

It felt like someone squeezed my abdomen and then squeezed it some more and then squeezed it even tighter, even though I was begging them to stop.

Is that what a contraction’s like?

“Luke…” My breath is suddenly rather snatched. “I’m not sure I can do this….”

It’s even tighter now, and I’m almost panting, my hands gripping Luke’s forearm.

“You’ll be fine. You’ll be wonderful.” He’s stroking my back rhythmically. “Dr. Braine’s on his way. The redhaired bitch is just leaving. Aren’t you, Venetia?” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine.

The contraction seems to have finished. The clenching sensation has died away. But I know it’ll be back, like that scary guy on Elm Street.

“I think I’d like an epidural after all,” I gulp. “Quite soon.”

“Of course!” says Paula, hurrying over. “I’ll page the anesthetist. You’ve done so well to last this long, Becky….”

“…ridiculous.” I hear the last word of some muttered epithet of Venetia’s before she bangs the door closed.

“What a cow!” says Suze. “I’m telling all my pregnant friends what a cow she is.”

“She’s gone.” Luke kisses me on the forehead. “It’s over. I’m sorry, Becky. I’m so sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say automatically.

And actually…I mean it.

Already I feel like Venetia’s irrelevant, drifting away from us like smoke. It’s Luke and me that matters. And the baby.

Oh God, another contraction’s starting already. This whole labor malarkey is a complete pain. I grab the gas and air mask and all the student midwives gather round, encouraging me as I start to inhale.

“You can do it, Becky…stay relaxed…breathe….”

Come on, baby. I want to meet you.

“You’re doing great…keep breathing, Becky….”

Of course you can do it. Come on. We both can.

TWENTY-ONE

IT’S A GIRL.

It’s a little girl, with scrunched-up petal lips and a tuft of dark hair and hands in tiny fists, up by her ears. All that time, that’s who was in there. And it’s weird, but the minute I saw her I just thought: It’s you. Of course it is.

Now she’s lying in a plastic crib beside my bed in a gorgeous little white Baby Dior babygro. (I wanted to try a few different outfits on just to see what suited her, but the midwife got a bit stern with me and said we both needed our sleep.) And I’m just staring at her, feeling fuzzy from the broken night, watching every rise and fall of her breath, every squirm of her fingers.

The birth was…

Well, it was what they call “straightforward and easy.” Which really makes me wonder. It seemed pretty complicated and bloody hard work to me. But anyway. Some things are best left a blur. Births and Visa bills.

“Hi. You’re awake.” Luke looks up from where he’s been dozing in a chair and rubs his eyes. He’s unshaven and his hair is askew and his shirt is all rumpled.

“Uh-huh.”

“How is she?”

“Fine.” I can’t help a smile licking across my face as I look at her again. “Perfect.”

“She is perfect. You’re perfect.” His face has a kind of distant euphoria even as he’s looking at me, and I know he’s reliving last night.

In the end, just Luke stayed in the room, and everyone else went out to wait. And then they went home, because Dr. Braine said it would be a long while before anything happened. But it wasn’t! It was one thirty in the morning when she was born, and she looked all bright-eyed and alert, straightaway. She’s going to be a party girl, I know it.

She doesn’t have a name yet. The list I made is discarded on the floor beside the bed. I got it out last night when the midwife asked what we were going to call her — but all the names I’d thought about are wrong. They’re just…wrong. Even Dolce. Even Tallulah-Phoebe.